


Devastation

by Luka



Series: We're a Team [19]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21974647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: The media spotlight focuses on England's World Cup final - but the nightmare doesn't end there.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Series: We're a Team [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1351333
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	Devastation

**Author's Note:**

> Finally - I managed to write the World Cup final section of my ongoing series! Sadly there's no AU here - waaaaaah! 
> 
> And here's the usual warning for much swearing and my over-fertile imagination ...

The waiting was the worst, with the interminable media spotlight not far behind. The coverage focused almost solely on the childhood friends who were now life partners. Owen thought that there couldn’t be a rugby fan alive who didn’t know the fucking saga by now. Cipriani used his column in the Daily Telegraph to praise George and call him the power behind the throne. It sat there, unmentioned, like the elephant in the room.

Eddie’s pre-final press conferences ranked pretty highly on the WTF scale. It was obvious he was trying to take the pressure off the team members by going into bizarre quote generator mode. Owen wasn’t entirely sure it worked, though. At least the Marler and Cole double act provided some light relief. And then there was the Sam monologue with Tom occasionally getting a word in edgeways. Both the lads were mad as a box of frogs. 

The social media campaign to get Tom’s brother Ben out to the final at least helped to divert some of the attention away from the team. And it was a feel-good story when Sale said he could go. The England lads could see that Tom was secretly thrilled that his twin would be there.

Owen’s parents and Gabe, and George’s mum had been out there since the semi-final. His dad had got the OK from Leicester to fly in for the final. George’s brothers were staying in England because of club responsibilities, but they both messaged him daily.

Their families took them out for meals and did their best to act normally - like that was ever going to happen with Owen, his dad and George around one table. They were talking rugby before the starters had even arrived. Their mums rolled their eyes in perfect unison and went into wedding planning mode. Gabe took lots of photos, including one of Owen losing a battle with a bowl of noodles … Owen’s mum had it up on Instagram within half a minute.

***

The night before the final, Owen held the now-traditional captain’s meeting. It was just the team there, with none of the coaches present. The idea of it clearly fascinated the media, and Owen fervently wished Jamie had kept his mouth shut about it and also hadn’t tried to turn him into some sort of grand orator - which he totally fucking wasn’t. Whatever he said, though, came from the heart, and he knew the team knew that.

Mako spoke first, quiet and thoughtful. Jonny was next, scattergun but impassioned. Ben as usual was upbeat and encouraging. George was last, intense and totally focused.

There was a brief silence, then Owen said quietly: “Whatever happens tomorrow, I’m so fucking proud of you all.” He loved these lads and realised just how much they’d shared.

He caught George’s eye and was rewarded with one of his rare, wide smiles. And at that moment all Owen wanted was to make George proud of him.

***

The shit from the media started almost within seconds of the final whistle. All the cameras seemed to dwell on Owen and George hugging, their foreheads touching. Never mind that it was about half a fucking minute in the scheme of things as Owen tried to console each one of his heartbroken team. He’d spent longer with Sinks, who was totally out of it after the blow on the head and didn’t even know which fucking day it was. Apparently he’d had to ask Joe Marler whether it was all over now.

Owen knew George blamed himself for the defeat. He’d been perilously close to tears during the interview with ITV, but Owen knew he wouldn’t cry in front of his teammates, let alone the public. And he didn’t seem to hear when Owen told him that no one took control in the second half either and that they’d run into a team whose pack had mercilessly dismantled their own. The South Africans had also used du Toit to target George – and he’d have the bruises for a fucking week.

And the cunts-in-chief Goode and Ashton led the accusations that Owen and George’s relationship was to blame. One of the hacks made the mistake of mentioning this to Ben and Joe Marler after the match - and got both barrels.

***

_England scrum-half Ben Youngs has slammed the critics who’ve claimed the World Cup final defeat to South Africa was down to an unhealthy balance of power in the squad._

_Former England fly-half Andy Goode and winger Chris Ashton both blamed the relationship between captain Owen Farrell and his fiancé George Ford for the defeat._

_“The relationship between the two of them off the pitch has affected England adversely on the pitch,” said Goode. “It’s led to an unhealthy balance of power.”_

_And Sale winger Ashton, who was omitted from the England squad, added: “Anyone with eyes in their head can see that Danny Cipriani would have made the world of difference to the England team at no. 10. I’m disappointed that Eddie Jones persisted with a combination that lost us the final.”_

_An angry Youngs said: “Andy Goode is way out of touch with the modern game. And Chris Ashton needs to keep his mouth shut. He’s already rightly been disciplined for homophobic comments on social media. And he’s clearly blind to the fact that George Ford has been one of the players of the tournament.”_

_And England prop Joe Marler said: “I’ve never heard such tripe in my life. Those two lads have contributed so much to the England team. Without them, England wouldn’t even have been within shouting distance of a World Cup final. Idiots claiming otherwise should stick their prejudices where the sun don’t shine.”_

***

When the plane landed at Heathrow, there was dead silence as the engines went quiet. And Owen knew that he couldn’t let five months of relentless effort disappear in an instant. Almost without thinking, he stood up, his throat suddenly dry. All eyes were on him, as he said simply: “This isn’t the end, lads. This is just the fucking beginning.”

He and George said the briefest of goodbyes outside. The Leicester contingent were being ferried home by George’s dad, Ben’s wife and Coley’s wife, and people and luggage were being allocated to cars. Owen hid a smile at the thought of George and the monosyllabic Ellis in the same car - at least George’s dad, who could talk for England, would keep the conversation going. Ben’s wife was going to need earplugs to tolerate two hours of Lenny and Jonny blathering in stereo. And Mrs Cole would no doubt escape lightly, as Manu would sleep all the way home and Dan would provide her with the tournament highlights in a handful of sentences.

“You fit, mate?” Ben Spencer materialised by his side. His wife was part of the Saracens taxi service. The lad, who’d been called in to replace the injured Willi Heinz, had certainly had one of the more bizarre weeks of his life, culminating in an unexpected appearance in a World Cup final.

Owen nodded, slung his bags into the boot, and prepared to sleep during the short journey to Hertfordshire.

***

_You home ok, our kid?_

_Yeah, been back about half an hour. Slept most of the way. You ok?_

_Yeah, all fine. When you gonna find out how much time Tigers are giving you off?_

_I know already - ten days. Geordy messaged us all earlier. What about you?_

_Fortnight. Mark did the same. You fancy going somewhere quiet?_

_Hell, yes. Italy again?_

_Leave it with me!_

***

“We should put in an offer to buy this place,” said Owen, stretching out luxuriously on one of the huge sofas, his head in George’s lap.

“That’s not a bad idea …” 

The villa had been free for ten days, and they were there by Thursday, thanks to a cheap last-minute air fare from Stansted. 

“Let’s ask. Or we can at least have a look at what’s for sale in the area.”

“Good plan.” George’s fingers were gently massaging Owen’s scalp.

“Shall we tell Mica and the lads from the Red Devils that we’re back?”

“Yeah, why not …” George sounded drowsy, and Owen knew he was mentally and physically exhausted.

They’d managed to avoid the UK media and no one apart from their families knew where they’d gone. It meant Owen wouldn’t have to listen to people like Jamie and Elliot picking over the defeat endlessly. He wasn’t ready for that. George knew instinctively when he did and didn’t want to talk.

***

They both slept a lot the first few days. The squad WhatsApp was quiet to start with, as people were still coming to terms with what had happened. It erupted into a volley of piss-taking when some website published the results of a poll on the hottest player of the tournament. George was second behind one of the Italian lads, with Owen sixth.

George was scarlet with embarrassment as the comments on WhatsApp flew thick and fast. “Whole thing’s just stupid and meaningless. I mean, you’re sixth and they don’t even have Henry and Maro in the top 20 …”

“Bollocks, our kid! They can see what I’ve seen for years …”

Owen could see that this just embarrassed George even more, so he claimed a quick kiss and suggested they went out for lunch. He wondered if George would recognise the seismic shift that he’d undergone during the World Cup - one of the players of the tournament, for a start. And a straw poll of England teammates for a Rugby World feature had dubbed him and Piers as the fittest players in the squad. The shy, skinny boy was long gone.

***

Mica was in the cafe when they got there. He greeted them with a hug and brief commiserations over the final. “We were all watching in the clubhouse and we all wanted England to win,” he said briefly.

“Thanks. It was a shame that your lads didn’t get to play their last game.”

Mica shrugged. “Yes. But it would have been too much for them to qualify. The Italy team has a lot of work to do. It’s like we’re going backwards rather than forwards.”

Owen nodded. He suspected Conor O’Shea’s days as Italy coach were numbered. Italy needed to cultivate a steady stream of home-grown players, rather than being reliant on expat Kiwis and British lads with Italian grandparents. 

“If you would like to come, the Red Devils are playing at home this weekend. We’re second in the league. And there’s a barbecue afterwards. Do not feel you have to come, though. We understand that you might want a break from rugby.”

They looked at each other and laughed.

“We don’t do breaks from rugby,” said George.

“This is the lad who even practises his kicking on Christmas Day!” said Owen, gesturing at George.

“Which is why you’re both where you are,” said Mica firmly.

***

Owen could have fucking killed Eddie. Yeah, the bloke had a book to sell, but for fuck’s sake, no player would have got away with that sort of media shit. In effect, he’d just thrown George and Mako to the wolves. 

_“I accept that I made two selection mistakes for the final,” said Jones._

_“I should have chosen Joe Marler ahead of Mako Vunipola at loosehead prop and reverted to the Owen Farrell-Manu Tuilagi-Henry Slade midfield we used against Australia. George Ford could have come off the bench when we had got into the game.”_

Owen read the story online and was so angry that he couldn’t speak. All people would remember was this and not the fact that George was one of the players of the tournament and that Mako had battled back from a serious injury. It was fucking collective responsibility, for fuck’s sake. And changing the starting line-up would have made zero fucking difference. They’d run up against a team who were well-nigh unplayable on the day.

Owen resolved to raise what Eddie had said at his debriefing. None of the players had been allowed to write columns during the World Cup - and England Rugby had refused to allow Owen and George to do that video diary for the BBC. It was clearly one rule for the players and one for the head coach.

George point-blank refused to discuss the matter. “It’s his view, and that’s that,” he said flatly.

“It’s total fucking bollocks and he shouldn’t have said it. Changing the starting line-up wouldn’t have made any fucking difference and he knows it. I’m gonna bring it up in the debriefing, and so should you.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it …”

And Owen knew that was all he was going to get out of George on the matter.

Owen phoned Mako, who was phlegmatic about the whole thing.

“It’s just Eddie being Eddie …”

“I know, but I don’t like the way it comes across as blaming two players for the defeat. I’m gonna mention it to Eddie and in the debriefing."

There was silence then Mako said: “Are you and George OK?”

“Yeah fine, thanks. We’re in Italy for ten days.”

“Good. Tell him I was asking after him.”

“I will. See you next week.”

Owen wandered through to where George was checking his email. He looked up and smiled.

“OK?”

Owen kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, fine. Just phoned Mako and told him I’m gonna have a go at Eddie about that book shit. He said to tell you he was asking after you.”

George’s face hardened for a moment, and then he nodded. “You fancy going out for dinner to that weird medieval place we went to last time?”

Owen could spot changing the subject at 20 paces, and knew that the off-the-pitch relationship between George, Mako and Billy was pretty much dead in the water. “Yeah, that sounds good. And I’ve just had an email from me mam, who says Siobhan’s got some time to work on the rings if we’d like her to. Shall we have a look and choose?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

Owen opened up a folder on his laptop and double-clicked on a load of files. An array of rings appeared on the screen.

They scrolled through them a couple of times. In the end there was no contest - they both went for a gold Celtic infinity design. They looked at it, looked at each other and nodded.

“It’s beautiful,” said George softly.

Owen nodded again and started typing an email to Siobhan.

***

The message from Brad appeared the night before they flew home. Owen read it and went cold. 

_Just warning you, mate. The shit’s about to hit the fan on the salary cap enquiry. The rumour is that it’s not gonna be good._


End file.
